


Gentle

by Kittycattycat



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Gen, Sensory Integration Disorder (SID), Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittycattycat/pseuds/Kittycattycat
Summary: No one seems to understand you.





	Gentle

If there’s any one thing in the entire world you, Edward E. Nygma, hate more than anything, it’s light touches— you know, the ones that just barely ghost across your skin and leave an itch that you can only scratch by clinging hard to your own arms and digging your nails into them until red, crescent-shaped marks will remain for days. The touches loose clothes fluttering against exposed pale skin and the faint tapping of your coworker’s finger against your shoulder cause. You hate those.

They make you feel vulnerable, unprotected. It tingles your flesh and, with a cringe, you flinch away from their touch, scratching at your arms and fiddling with the hem of your jacket until the tingling subsides,

You've told Oswald this a thousand times in a hundred different ways, maybe not with those exact words, but you know he knows. And as you look at him, giving a tight-lipped smile to guests in the lounge unfamiliar to you and gently running his fingers across your own, know he didn't just ‘forget about it.’ 

It's like if he pretends the differences between you both don't exist, there aren't any. Even after explaining to him as best you can that those horrid sounds, the whining and scraping of packing peanuts rubbing together or the revolting crunch of the well-dressed man who sat in the booth behind you at the café biting his perfectly straight teeth into a golden apple, or that feathery touches are terrible and hurt you, he still doesn't understand. Doesn't do anything to keep from brushing you just barely in the way that makes you want to claw at your arms or opening the cardboard box that inevitably creates a noise that makes your skin crawl.

You lean against the bar and sip quietly on your glass of ice water, hearing Oswald let out the fakest laugh you've ever heard in the back of your mind. You know you shouldn't be upset with him. It's childish, petty, so completely beneath you. You hate yourself for being so distraught and emotional about the entire situation, and that in turn makes you even more susceptible to the plots of passive-aggression that whirl through your mind.

You can't get yourself to bring it up with him, though. Not only are you, well, you don't really need to use the word ‘afraid’, wary of the possible offense he may take, but you know he's not doing it intentionally. It's not a conscious effort on his part to irk you. He simply doesn't understand. You've learned that very few people ever understand what it's like. Even fewer make any changes to their behaviors to accommodate you in the slightest. 

Vaguely, it reminds you of an incident from your childhood. You rarely, if ever, reminisce on any memories from that point in your life, but this one stands out every so often. Your mother, god bless her, had wanted you to be more social, so she organized a small play-date with the son of a friend of hers. He and his mom would come over and, as the women had an ‘adult conversation’ (which mostly consisted of the two sipping on a bottle of wine and chatting about this and that) in the dining room, you and the boy would be expected to make company with each other in the entertainment center.

You were in the middle of reading a novel (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling, a book you’d read about thrice over by then) when he meandered in, ruffling his own hair and looking about with shifty, uncomfortable eyes. He looked about as stereotypical as an eight-year-old white boy could, with some graphic t-shirt with a cartoon dinosaur on front and a slightly crooked hat you were tempted to fix. You, of course, didn't, because you'd known by then that people seem to get upset with you when you do small things like that.

He hovered awkwardly around the side of the couch, opposite to where you sat, for about five or so minutes before looking over at you and clearing his throat.

You look up, trying your best to mask your annoyance at being interrupted. If nothing else, mother had taught you how to be polite. 

“Whatcha readin’?” the boy asked, a slightly curious tone obvious in his voice. 

“…Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix,” you answered cautiously, not used to anyone even attempting to feign interest in what you read or did, “It's about Harry and his friends— I assume you know who they are? — in their sixth year at Hogwarts as they and other companions, including many older witches and wizards, prepare themselves for-”

You prattled on, admittedly more excited than you rightfully should have been, about the story and the characters and all the incredible things about the wizarding world for only a few minutes before the boy jerked himself out of his seat and stormed off angrily.

Utterly confused, you sat in silence and pondered what on earth you could have done wrong for a good while, before eventually admitting that you simply didn't know (something you would never do nowadays, and were reluctant to do then) and going back to enjoying your reading material.

It was late in the afternoon when the woman and her son finally left. While the woman and your mother chatted avidly all the way out the door, there was pointed silence between you and the blond boy accompanied by tension that could be cut by a knife.

After having left, no words were exchanged between you and your mother for the first few minutes. You had hoped there would be no confrontation at all, but alas, it came regardless. 

Following the others’ departure, you were gently pulled aside and lead to the couch where you and her both took a seat. She asked what had occurred between you and the boy. You told her. She sighed wearily.

“When others ask you about what you're reading or watching,” she explained gently, putting a hand on your shoulder (the touch fell in the light range, making you uncomfortable, but you learned that jerking away made her upset and that certainly wasn't something you wanted to do), “they usually really mean, ‘can I join you?’”

You remember questioning it. Why wouldn't they just say that then, instead of being so cryptic about it?

She just sighed once more and shook her head, and seeing her do it again made your stomach sink. You'd disappointed her. You hated disappointing her. 

You'd remember her response for a long time afterwards. She'd said that normal kids understood what others meant, that it was just a normal part of communication. Normal kids, she'd said, understood the implications and acted accordingly. Normal kids weren't confused by others’ speech patterns and slang and didn't need any sort of translator.

You wouldn't forget her emphasis on ‘normal kids’ for a long time, either.

The lounge is beginning to empty around you. You down another shot and head for home. That was a good night of introspection, you guess.

**Author's Note:**

> I highkey dislike this story, the writing is crap, but oh well


End file.
